"There's no shame in picking up the phone and calling Sienna, Wolfe."
"Did Kylie put you up to this?"
There's a look of surprise on his face, but then he sets the guitar he’s been strumming to the side and stretches his arms out on the back of the couch. "We haven't had time to talk about your problems."
I don't know if he's implying that he's been too busy screwing my sister or fighting with her, but it's not something I want to hear. "I still want to f**k you up for what you did to her."
"We're working it out. But your problems . . ."
Again with that shit. I start to tell him to get the f**k out of my house but then my phone vibrates from the piano bench. I turn it over and scan the screen, reading the text Cal sent. “Cal already left. Something came up.”
“A woman. Sounds like him.” Wyatt’s on his feet before I can say anything, heading toward the door. When he turns around to face me again, he releases a long breath and scratches his head. “Fuck, don’t look at me like that. Go out. Get her out of your system if you’re not going to see her. But don’t sit around doing this. It’s not you.”
I put my phone back down on the bench and pick up the half-empty beer that’s sitting on the corner. I’ve been “drinking” it for the past hour. “Tell Kylie to call me tomorrow.”
He leaves then, muttering something under his breath that I don’t manage to make out. For a long time, I stay in the music room, nursing the same Sam Adams. Fucking pathetic. Just like Wyatt said.
When I finally get up long after both Cal and Wyatt leave, I don’t go upstairs to my bed like I originally planned.
Chapter Four
Lucas Wolfe
Tonight, I drive my Jeep, which I’ve had since the “Sam Days,” because it’s low-key. I don’t drive to Sienna’s place, even though it’s the place where I know I’d find the most happiness. I go out to one of the local bars that I frequent when I’m home in Los Angeles, taking a break from the other bar I’ve been frequenting. Located downtown, its a little shithole that’s nestled between a larger bar and a nightclub. The beer is cheap; the music is good; and the crowd, a bunch of regulars, doesn’t give two shits about whether or not I’m Lucas Wolfe or a bum with a few dollars to spend.
It’s busy tonight, so it takes me a few laps around the area to find a decent parking space. When I finally do park the Jeep—two blocks from the bar—I feed about twenty dollars in change that I find in my center console and cup holders into the meter. Sleeping in too late is a constant curse of mine when it comes to late night drinking, and I’ve had my car towed before after failing to pick it up on time. The hassle of getting it back always pisses Kylie off and things are strained enough with my little sister thanks to what I did to Sienna.
“Get Red out of your head, mother f**ker. At least for tonight,” I tell myself.
Shoving my keys into my pocket, I walk the two blocks to the bar quickly. The security guard doesn’t stop me to check my ID. He steps aside, lifts his chin slightly in acknowledgement and gives me a shit-eating grin. I haven’t been here in a while, but the last time, in early January, I left with one of the bartenders and her friend.
As I settle into a seat at the dimly lit bar, my phone vibrates. At first, I ignore it and focus my attention on Drowning Pool’s “Bodies,” but after it buzzes a few more times, I drag it out of my pocket. I’m not surprised to find a string of messages from my sister.
11:29 PM: Are you alright, Lucas?
11:44 PM: Because Wyatt said you’re having a hard time.
11:48 PM: Lucas?
Making a mental note to strangle the shit out of Wyatt the next time I see him, I release a frustrated noise as I message her back. I’m nowhere near as quick as Kylie, and no sooner than I let her know that I’m alright and that I hope she has a good night not screwing with me, she responds again.
11:52 PM: You answered too fast. Did something happen?
One of the bartenders—thankfully not the same one who took me home a couple months ago—leans across the counter and her lips thin into a wide smile. “Relax, Mr. Rockstar. You’re about to break that thing into two.” She dips her head down to the phone I’m clutching in the palm of my hand. I glance at it too and loosen my grip, earning a “that’s better” from the blonde. “Haven’t seen you around in a long time. Been busy?”
I try like hell to come up with her name. I drag my eyes over her, searching for a nametag. When I don’t see one, I lift the corners of my mouth and shrug. “New music and shit.”
“Well then I’m glad you’ve been away.” Slinging her long straight hair over one of her bare shoulders, she straightens her back but not before purposely squeezing her tits together so that they come close to spilling over the top of her black halter. “I f**king adore your music.” She winks one of her heavily lined dark eyes at me—a clear invitation. I give her a dick response by asking for my usual, seasonal Sam Adams, and her smile grows even wider. “Anything for you.”
I follow her movements as she grabs my drink, which are all a little more dramatic and sensual than they normally would be, and finally spot her nametag pinned to the bottom of her shirt. She pretends to be oblivious to the appreciative grins of the rest of the mother f**kers sitting at the bar when she returns to me with one bottle more than I asked for, which I gratefully accept. “Want me to start a tab for you?”
I take a gulp of the beer, downing more in twenty seconds than I’ve drank all night, before nodding. “I’ll be here awhile.”